Underestimate
by redtaxi
Summary: Sherlock Holmes had never thought that his underestimation of Molly could save a life. Let alone, his own.
1. Underestimate

This story was entirely inspired by Shoresh's excellent fanart/story idea on tumblr.

shoreshroot on tumblr.

You should all visit her post as this story is not half as glorious and fluffy as that piece.

* * *

"It can't wait until the morning, John!"

Even though, John Watson had heard these words on a constant repeat, frequently used to justify any ridiculous, momentary need of Sherlock, his routine never changed from the usual nod, a large [mostly dramatic] sigh and the promise to follow regardless.

That same routine had lead them both to working over time in the labs of Barts' Hospital. Their case that evening; the death of a travel agent.

An unlikely suspicious case at first glance, until you account for the fact that the agent's death was the eighth that week. Sherlock, hunched over a microscope, had barely spoken a word to John in the entire fifty minutes they were there. The blissful quiet of humming machines and Sherlock's muttering lulled John into a unexpected sleep. Till the later subject who thumped his hands victoriously on the desk woke him up again.

"What...what?" John muttered distractedly.

"Polymer adhesive, John. The same substance from the agent's kitchen."

"Polymer...what?" John rubbed his eyes roughly until a surprise third figure emerged in his sight.

"Evening, Molly." He spotted the pathologist, near the back of the lab, busying herself with a stack of reports.

"Oh morning. Late night was it?" Molly joked cheerfully. John glanced towards the clock behind her head. Bit too cheerful for four o'clock in the morning.

Rubbing out a crick from his neck, John shook his head towards Sherlock in a silent explanation. "Sort of. Hasn't ended yet."

Sherlock, seemingly unaware of the conversation happening around him, called out to Molly just as she gave John a tiny smile.

"Coffee would be wonderful, Molly." He said without removing his eyes from the microscope.

"Oh okay, yes." She answered back flustered. "I'll...I'll be back..."

"Lovely." John sarcastically muttered as the lab doors closed behind her.

"Hmm?"

"You know, Sherlock. She's not your housekeeper either."

"I only saved her the trouble of asking. Which she would have so done." He paused, talking rapidly under his breath. "Polymer adhesive..."

"Isn't that just glue? So she had glue all over her clothes."

"No, of course it's more than that!"

Molly returned, two cups balanced on a stack of books in one hand. Placing the cups down, she turned expectantly to Sherlock but only received a grateful smile from his partner.

"I've still got your tests from last week, the old cultures."

"Hmm." Again, a non-response from Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock, as Molly gave a dejected shrug before awkwardly walking back towards her office.

"What?"

"I said nothing."

"You rolled your eyes."

"How could...you weren't even looking at me."

"Honestly John. You do it so often, I've grown accustomed to the sound." Sherlock slammed his hands frustratedly onto the lab top. "Why would she have so much on her clothes!"

"Maybe she was into arts and crafts."

"John."

"You know, scrap booking." John was quickly silenced by Sherlock's cold glare. Obviously not a morning person either.

"That sample also contained silicon dioxide. Rather odd." They both turned towards the unexpected voice, as Molly re-entered the lab. She tried not to fluster under their confused faces as she read from the report in her hand.

"You don't usually find that in glue...or in central London. Probably only find it in..."

"Oh well done, John!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, interrupting Molly in mid sentence. The detective bounced right out of his chair, before striding towards the exit, coat already in hand. "Of course!"

"What? well no, wasn't me...it was..." John scrambled to get up from his chair, while Molly stood dazed at Sherlock's reaction.

"You better call Lestrade quickly. I doubt he'll feel too upset about the early wake up call with this news." Sherlock, with a very smug smirk, exited the lab, leaving behind a very befuddled John and Molly.

"Sorry. I don't know why..." John said, shaking his head.

"No, it's okay." She spoke too quickly, no doubt trying to cover for Sherlock's indiscretion. "I don't mind, really."

"You sure?"

This time, her smile stretched uncomfortably over her face. "Yeah, you better go. He probably thinks.."

"That I'm right behind him, yeah. Err, thanks for the coffee."

* * *

John looked back to the clock again, the big hand barely passing by five. He was sitting on Inspector Lestrade's sofa in his office, secretly thanking the Inspector's wife for making the furniture piece an obvious necessity these past years. With sleepy eyes, he watched Sherlock and Lestrade 'talk'.

"So you called in because our dead body was covered in...glue. Really, Sherlock. My priorities and when I say mine, I mean mine, not yours, are not at all in sync!"

"Not glue, Inspector. Common mistake. Obviously the glue is more significant than that. All her clothing, her hands were covered in this specialized substance, it's not a coincidence!"

"I don't know. Could be scrapbooker." Lestrade casually remarked. John looked up worriedly and rightly so as Sherlock's face fell into a dark scowl.

"Are you being purposefully blind?"

"Well, what else did you find?" Lestrade turned to John, as Sherlock huffed, his hands thrown angrily into his pockets before retreating over to the office window.

"Ahh..silicon dioxide." John said, reading off his notebook.

"Silicon what?"

"Silicon dioxide." Sherlock called from the window in a irritated tone. "You would know it as...oh yes." Then suddenly, his face transformed, eyes widen with a joy John knew as Sherlock's "gotcha" glee.

"What, Sherlock?" Lestrade tried to ask but the detective already had his phone out, fingers rapidly flying over it, laughing quietly to himself.

"I'll have your answer by this evening, Inspector." Sherlock answered nonchalantly, walking out of the office, straightening up his coat as he went.

"Have what? Sherlock!"

The detective pulled his head back into the office, only to yell out "Sand!"

* * *

Somewhere between Huston Road and Baker Street, John lost Sherlock. He dismissed John in the morning after they left Scotland Yard. Barely mentioning where he was going, he sent John home with the promise that he would return that afternoon.

That was at eight o'clock.

By that afternoon, John gave up on sending relaxed texts and had already begun his panic as Sherlock had yet to reply to a single one.

Till half past six. _Vatican Cameos._

"Shit!" The good doctor yelled, leaping out of his chair before rushing out of the flat.

* * *

"By the docks? You serious? Wait, Molly? Right, no I'll be there soon. Thanks." John, quickly ending his call with Lestrade, sprinted off the street towards a free cab. He'd been wandering around London, worried sick of what might have happen to Sherlock until the Inspector called up, informing him that their consulting detective had been found in an old factory off the docks. Kidnapped and drugged and apparently, rudely refusing all medical assistance.

As soon as the cab hit the curb, John ran out straight into the docks. The wharf was littered with police cars, vans but John soon spotted the Inspector, leaning against a police car...with Molly.

The two of them looked up in relief at the sight of John.

"Good timing. Our friend's getting restless." Lestrade said humorlessly, pointing towards the back of an ambulance, were indeed sat a disgruntled detective, wrapped up in a red blanket.

Sherlock looked up, unfazed to see John run up to him, all flushed and puffed.

"Ah John, excellent. The polymer adhesive, rare kind because it is only used in the manufacturing of passports. The travel agent was involved in an illegal mass production of British passports within this very factory."

"Are you alright?" John scanned his friend impatiently, purposely ignoring Sherlock's speech. Few scratches on his face, only one fresh scar, hidden between the gap of his nose and cheek.

"Of course I am." Sherlock said almost in offence.

John let go of a tired laugh in relief. "You don't look it."

"Nonsense. I was only injected with a slightly heavy sedative. Nothing to fawn over...oh, wonderful. Another blanket."

John gave thanks to the medic, Sherlock, choosing instead to glare, muttered angrily, "Look, I'm not in shock. I'm fine."

"How did you find me?"

"What?"

"I was sure we were untraceable from the moment I sent that text. They took my phone."

"Err, I didn't." Sherlock followed John as he pointed over towards the police car. "Molly did."

"Molly?"

"Yeah, she was the one who called up Lestrade. Apparently she just knew that this would be the place to find you."

"I don't...I don't..." John was surprised to see Sherlock stumble over his words, his mouth opening and closing awkwardly in a very un-Sherlock fashion.

"Yeah, well I don't know much but Lestrade said she worked out where they were working too..."

"The silicon dioxide." Sherlock interrupted him abruptly.

"What?" But John was ignored as Sherlock gazed over, his eyes still glued onto the pathologist, clutching her blue coat as she chatted with the Inspector.

"Right. He's alright to go then?" John called out to the medic, slightly uncertain of his friend's condition, considering the fact that Sherlock had yet to look away from the police car and was now staring openly at Lestrade and Molly with a very odd expression.

John helped his friend up and they walked towards the road, where the black cab awaited them. It appeared to John that Sherlock wasn't even aware that they had left the docks, until finally he shook his head out its thoughts, his previous dazed face now replaced by the usual cool one.

"You sure you're alright?"

"Yes. Don't ask me again."

John pull his hands up in fake defence, relaxing into the seat at Sherlock's sharp tone. He's back normal now, thank god.

But as the cabbie sped off onto the main road, John swore he saw his friend mouthed something quietly to himself before turning away to smirk out the window.

"Silicon dioxide..." John caught the end of the impressed whisper.

Back to normal? Perhaps not.


	2. The New Arrangement

A continuation of the little plot-bunny of Molly the Detective.

Apologies in advance for dull writing and slow-moving Sherlolly action/lovey-dovey times.

* * *

"I didn't even touch your sock index!"

"Are you suggesting it was Mrs. Hudson?"

"You're the bloody detective, you work it out!"

The sudden bang of the doors, followed by rushed steps on linoleum caused Molly to jump in her chair.

In their fiery exchange, Molly went unnoticed by the two men as they strode over to the lab station. Angry mutters flowed freely from the taller man while his companion, settling himself onto a stool, shot her a sympathetic smile.

"Don't mind us, Molly."

This received John a sarcastic gruff from the detective, whose hands were already occupied with 'his' microscope but his eyes, John noted, followed the pathologist eagerly as she moved over towards them.

"No, it's alright." Molly said cheerfully. "Gets too quiet in here sometimes. I was actually going to get a coffee...do you need anyth-?"

Her smile dipped at Sherlock's dismissive nod.

A irking sense of deja vu struck John as he watched Molly retreat quietly from the lab.

"So it's decided then. You're not going to say anything to her."

Sherlock gave a bored sigh. "What would you have me say, John?"

"A thank you might be a start. She did save your life last week."

"That would be unnecessary. I'm sure Molly is aware of my gratitude for her help."

A laugh escaped John, earning him a very petulant glare but he's not silenced so easily. "Sorry. No, of course. I forgot how you say thank you in your demand for more coffee."

Fortunately for John, Sherlock's rebuttal was interrupted by Molly, returning to the lab, empty handed. She stopped, quickly catching onto the tension between the men.

"S-sorry, forgot my purse." She explained.

"Actually Molly-I'll get the coffees." John got up from the stool. If Sherlock wasn't going to do it on his own terms, then he would have to deal with John's. After all, is it so hard for Sherlock just to acknowledge someone else's work?

"Err, two sugars for you, was it?" He edged towards the exit, carefully sidestepping the shared looks of confusion.

"Oh no-well yes, but I can go-"

"No need!" John didn't have to feign his large smile at the sight of a befuddled Molly and more importantly, a positively suspicious looking Sherlock.

But before he left, John made sure to sabotage the very escape plan he suspected Sherlock was already formulating in his mind. "Don't forget, Sherlock-to tell Molly about that thing. Y'know that very important thing."

A smug John rubbed his hands happily as the door fell behind him, leaving two stumped souls in his wake.

* * *

He returned forty minutes later. An unjustifiably long time to get coffee but long enough for Sherlock and Molly to have some kind of conversation in his absence. Or at least he had hoped.

With three paper cups of bitter instant, John walked into the lab, his face fell in dismay. Both Molly and Sherlock were secluded away in their tiny nooks of the lab, staring obviously away from each other.

John, walking over to Sherlock, raised his eyebrows in question, a look Sherlock ignored entirely as he snatched up his coffee. Molly was much the same, all appearing much too interested in a blotched liver sample at her desk.

John sunk into his seat, a little dejected. He'll leave the matchmaker business to Mrs. Hudson from now on, if Sherlock's going to be like this.

* * *

The next three hours did not pass smoothly for anyone. Molly, who retreated to the back of the lab, was now hiding behind an impressive stack of reports, the only evidence of her presence was limited to sporadic long sighs and the scratching of a pen.

Sherlock and John remained glued to their stools; each partner retrospectively muddling over very different things. For John, it was the anticipation for his date with his new girlfriend, Jeanette.

Their plans that evening did not included the likely chance of running around London with the irritable detective.

Sherlock's frustration with the case, coupled with the 'inefficiency of a defected force' [Sherlock's words, not John's], had begun to worsen the mututal feeling in the lab.

Sherlock had already sacrificed three petri dishes to his bad mood. One in particular that flew, narrowly missing John's head, was undoubtedly retribution for before. Not John's problem, his night wouldn't end in this lab, dealing with Sherlock's mood for much longer. No, John had plans, 'bottle of red, warm bed, lovely girlfriend' plans.

However, all thoughts of Jeanette flew swiftly from John's mind at the sudden shrill of Sherlock's phone.

"What's happening, Sherlock?"

"Lestrade's got a case for us." Sherlock got up from his seat, pulling on his coat.

"Think it will last long?" John said hesitantly. He did already have reservations at Angelo's.

"A triple murder? I should hope so." Sherlock said, the corners of his mouth hitched up an excited smirk. "Coming?"

John sighed helplessly. "I can't. I got plans tonight with-ah, alright." A quick text to Jeanette should delay their date for a bit. Maybe best with a phone call.

"Are you coming?" Sherlock repeated.

"I said I was-" But as John looked up from his phone, he saw Sherlock's gaze rise up above him and fall over to the other side of the lab. On Molly.

"Wh-what now? I'm still at work till-"

"You finish in fifteen minutes. I doubt your patients will mind, let alone notice, if you left early." Sherlock said, tightening his scarf around his neck.

"Yes, okay- give me, just give me-" Molly stammered off before rushing away to the back office.

John turned slowly to Sherlock, face full of curiosity but he was not spared an explanation, as the detective gave all his attention to his phone.

Molly returned with a bag and coat, hanging off her arm. "Ready!"

Sherlock smirked, dropping his phone into his pocket to lift up the collar of his coat.

"Excellent."

* * *

Upon their arrival at the crime scene, Sherlock strode off, leaving Molly and John trailing behind him towards the house, where on the doorstep, stood an agitated Detective Inspector, a tartan scarf barely masking his surprise at the approaching party.

"Now, hang on, Sherlock! I can't have so many people on the scene-" Lestrade said, although giving John and Molly a polite nod.

"I need an assistant." Sherlock unhelpfully explained.

"You already got one!"

"I needed another." Sherlock said dismissively and he begun to push past the Inspector, only to be stopped by a loud call.

"No! Absolutely not!" Anderson thundered out of the house, turning on Lestrade in protest. "The doctor's one thing but we don't need a pathologist! We have a perfectly adequate team!" He rudely turned his back on John and Molly to face Sherlock.

"Entirely right, Anderson. Perfectly adequate. Then there's no misunderstanding as to why I had to bring along Dr. Hooper." Sherlock retorted, pushing past the stumped forensic officer.

John hid a small smile as he lead Molly inside, who was now a fair shade of red.

Inside the house, yellow tape circled around the closed kitchen with white-washed floors, revealing the sight of three slain bodies. Sherlock fell into routine instantly, dictating Lestrade and the other officers through the rooms of the house before kneeling beside the bodies, to trace their skin with his magnifier.

John stood off at the back of the kitchen with Molly, watching Sherlock silently deduce the bodies.

He leaned over to whisper to her, "He didn't force you to come along, did he"? His words, lighthearted on surface, hid his serious concern that Sherlock may have gone too far this time.

Molly shook her head, shooting Sherlock's back a cautious look before answering innocently. "No, nothing like that. Just asked if I wanted to join you two."

Their conversation was prematurely cut off by a sudden kerfuffle, as Sherlock angrily rebuffed Anderson's third attempt to get back inside the room. Then, Molly was ushered to Sherlock's side, the detective thrust a pair of gloves into her hands before steering her towards the bodies. She threw an anxious look to John but Sherlock caught onto it instead.

"Are you uncomfortable, Dr. Hooper?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.

At his tone, John watched Molly shake away all concern from her face, leaving her to reply confidently to Sherlock. "No. Should I be?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose up but he said no more than, "Good."

John, unaccustomed to the presence of a third, helplessly watched Molly and Sherlock work over the bodies. Sherlock was particularly joyful, animatedly conversing with Molly as they shared observations. It was odd, to see his partner almost playfully engage with the pathologist, even if it was over a corpse.

Lestrade finally came in for Sherlock's final observations but instead of leading on his usual speech, Sherlock uncharacteristically turned to Molly. "Your findings first, Molly."

John and Lestrade shared a look as Molly smiled politely at Sherlock, "Oh? Okay. Well we found-"

* * *

As the end of evening had Molly tucked away in a speeding cab, heading home, John finally found his chance to question Sherlock.

"What's this then?"

"Just a one-off arrangement, John." Sherlock huffed at him, taking offence to John's suggestive tone. "Don't make something out of nothing."

"Huh."

Little did John know, that the one-off arrangement would never live up to its name.

* * *

Thank you for reading. :)


	3. Dumplings

Thank you for nice words. Molly the Detective takes her tea break as Dr. Watson takes the lead in the unusual case of the Consulting Detective.

* * *

As if the almost empty fridge could look even less appetizing, the unexpected reappearance of the 'thumbs', (even after Mrs. Hudson's food intervention) turned John's stomach uncomfortably.

He slammed the door shut with disgust, relieved that he wouldn't be dining at Baker Street tonight.

"Right, I'm off." He said to the back of a pyjama-cladded Sherlock, slumped onto the sofa in his blue dressing gown. It was clear that the detective was making no effort on his night off.

"There's that pasta from Monday, if you want." Sherlock doesn't stir from his position, John doubts he'll even move this evening.

"I should be home around twelve-ah, probably not." John retracts his words as Sherlock lazily swivels his head round to give him a knowing look. "Yeah, well. Pasta in the fridge and maybe, you could do a shop, since you're going to be here alone. Only if it doesn't kill you."

"Hmm."

"Or if I don't kill you." John mumbles as he pulls over his coat.

"What?"

"Right! I better go." John speedily heads to the door and down the stairs. Although he only makes it as far as the doorstep, before his mobile buzzes.

_Sorry john! i can't make our date tonight (blame a sadistic boss :( rain check? My treat ;) – xx Anne_

John groaned, mumbling to himself, "Thumbs for dinner, it is."

"John!" A familiar cry pulled John up from his phone, to see an overly-wrapped up Molly approaching, snuggled in a beanie and scarf, carrying two plastic bags.

John wasn't surprise to see Molly; in fact he had seen a lot of her in these past months.

Somewhere between May and August, Sherlock's one-off arrangement fell through. Molly soon became the unofficial third member of the 'business', joining Sherlock and him as frequently as she could afford in her work schedule.

Her presence on a Sunday afternoon, scrambling with Sherlock at the kitchen table, suddenly became a 'thing', much to the delight of Mrs. Hudson (Molly, in her eyes, was her table's savior to any unruly plans Sherlock had for it.)

Although Sherlock's explanation, as to why Molly was accompanying them so often, was more than sus.

"You don't run like you used to." Sherlock bluffed to John, one morning, again avoiding indulging John's curiosity.

It wasn't like John to romanticize anyone, let alone, Sherlock Holmes, God's gift of arrogant asexuality but he couldn't help to see a little more in the detective's motives.

Apparently, John's silence went on too long as Molly's polite smile began to slip off her face.

"Sorry, hey! What you doing here?" John eyed the bags cautiously, a suspicious looking lump of pink strained through the thin plastic bag. He was sure that they didn't have a case tonight.

"Sherlock texted." Molly gestured to the windows above. "I am to bring him Chinese food and liver samples." She said happily, showing John the suspicious bag. "You going out?"

"Err, was. She just cancelled."

"Oh, I've got plenty of food here! I doubt even _he_ can eat it all." They both looked up the window, where a soft strain of melody began to play; the dancing shadows flickered over the curtains.

"I hope you got double of everything." John smiled, taking one of the bags from Molly. "Didn't you have a date with that bloke tonight?"

John couldn't tell whether she blushed or whether it was the outside chill that tinted her cheeks but Molly tucked her head down, as she replied meekly. "Oh no, that was yesterday-Mrs. Hudson's not good at keeping secrets, is she?"

"You've learnt your lesson now." John joked, as they walked up the stairs, the soft notes of the violin growing louder.

The violin cut short as they pushed open the door. "Ah, good. Molly, you're—John."

A dressed Sherlock, (his dressing gown disappeared from sight), stood still, the violin dropped to hang down awkwardly by his side.

"I couldn't get that beef dish but I did get you those noodles." Molly headed towards the kitchen, oblivious to the stare-off, in progress, between Sherlock and John.

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's suit.

Sherlock replied with a tight curl of his lip.

"Perhaps, we shouldn't eat here." Molly said to no one in particular, eyeing Sherlock's ongoing experiment with disgust.

"I thought you had plans with Jeanette." Sherlock spoke out of the silence.

"Anne. And she had work." John corrected.

"The more the merrier." Molly cheerfully called from the kitchen, three plates in her hands as she walked back into the room.

"What?" She muttered, confused by their looks of disbelief.

* * *

After the second servings of dumplings and rice, Molly sat back happily in her chair by the sofa.

"So is the liver for the case?" She asked.

John mumbled with a mouthful of rice, "Case?"

"The case, yes John." Sherlock was quick in his sharp reply.

"I thought it was your night off. No cases."

Sherlock turned his head to John, blinking at him with a vacant look. "Obviously not."

"You just didn't mention it, that's all."

"I did. You were probably too preoccupied with Annette."

John took note of Sherlock's icy answer and replied with his own fire. "Do you always wear a suit underneath your dressing gown?"

Their silence was interrupted by an odd giggle, emitting from Molly, all forgotten in their exchange.

"-I better be off actually." Molly got up from her seat, reaching for her bag.

"There's no need for you to leave, Molly." Sherlock joined Molly, standing up. John, lagged behind, watched in surprise as Sherlock's cool facade faded.

"No, I've got work tomorrow. Might pop me in the incinerator if I'm late again." She badly joked, giving them a smile that barely reached her eyes. Sherlock guided her, somewhat reluctantly John noted, to the door.

"Night!" Molly gave John a final wave, before disappearing down the stairs.

"Admit it." John spoke to the back of Sherlock who was still by the door.

"Admit what?" Sherlock turned round, making a fast pace walk over to his chair to retrieve his violin.

"You like the pathologist." John dropped a dumpling into his mouth, a smirk on his face.

Sherlock waved his hand flippantly all the while fixing a puzzled look at John's statement. "Yes, I like Molly. Don't you?"

"What? No. No, you _like_ her. You know, like a man likes a woma-"

Sherlock scoffed, turning away to face the window, the violin lifting up to rest on his shoulder.

"Then what was she doing here?"

"We had a case."

"It's your night off."

"I needed a liver."

Their conversation was apparently finished as Sherlock began to draw his bow out in quick shorts of high pitched notes.

John, unsatisfied, watched Sherlock, so obvious in his denial before shaking his head, getting up from the sofa.

"Right, I'm off to bed."

John made it to the door before Sherlock paused his 'playing', to call out to him. "Next time, text beforehand. I prefer my work not to be interrupted."

"Right, wouldn't want to interrupt _'nothing'_." John wagged his eyebrows good humouredly.

A union-jack cushion hit the closing door, just missing its target.


	4. Curls

On a bustling street, stood a quiet flat, where two friends found themselves, unlike the rest of London that evening, slouched over their work. The street noise outside was matched only by the hum of their television, the hoarse roars of an unseen crowd as the rookie hero took his shot for the goal.

"John, turn it off."

"Hang on, they're about to win-"

The screen flickered to black and the remote, thrown carelessly over to the other side of the room.

John sighed, kicking himself for forgetting the first rule he made for the television. Hide the remote from Sherlock.

"Found anything yet?"

"Possibly." Sherlock said, eyes glued to his laptop, darting back and forth over its screen. "Merton went to culinary school on Farringdon Road in '95. Relocated to Ireland in '98 before returning to London to open a restaurant in Soho with-Michel Laymens."

John spun his head around, mouth agape. "Our victim?"

Sherlock grinned, taking out his phone, fingers flying over the pad in quick succession. "Exactly. I'll make reservations tonight, see if we can meet Mr. Merton."

John looked down at his scuffed jeans, "I better go change then."

Sherlock brought up his hand to halt him without taking his eyes off the phone. "No. You're not going."

"What? You're going by yourself?"

Sherlock scoffed, "Barely a seven, John."

John slumped back into his chair, confused. "Well then, whose going?"

His answer came thirty minutes later.

Soft voices downstairs, then thudding footsteps, alerted John to their guest and as he turned towards the door, Molly Hooper burst through, a little out of breath.

"Sorry—Sorry." She gasped. "Cab—cab was slow."

John let his eyes run over her. Molly was more dressy than usual. Her hair, taking a night off from its ponytail, was sleeked into soft curls and her dress, just below her knees, was a cherry red, matching her heels.

"What's wrong with your hair?" Sherlock suddenly blurted, his sharp tone instantly diminishing Molly's smile.

"Oh? Umm, gel." She mumbled, her cheeks flushed as John rolled his eyes at him. "Just gel."

"You cleaned up nice." John joked, earning him a sweet smile from Molly, (not forgetting the almost imperceptible glare from Sherlock as well)

"Yeah, some of the girls at work were going out but-I got your text, what do you need?"

Sherlock stood up from his desk to thrust a slip of paper into her hands. "Go to this restaurant and look for a medium-height, grey-haired man, Merton. If possible, try to get a look at his hand. You're looking for a distinctive tattoo on his left wrist."

Molly looked down at the paper note with puzzled eyes. "I—you want me to go-now?"

"Yes." Sherlock looked at her in earnest. "Hope you didn't rid of that cab downstairs."

Molly stood motionless, as if unable to comprehend why Sherlock called her on her night off just to go to a restaurant. John came to the same conclusion, giving his friend a look of incredulity as he stepped in on Molly's behalf.

"Come on Sherlock, you can't send Molly."

The detective had the audacity to look genuinely confused at this. "Why not?"

"_Why not?_ Look at her. Molly's obviously got plans-"

Sherlock took this opportunity to run his eyes callously over her. "She may be underdressed but that should hardly matter."

Molly ducked her head away, mortified but John pushed on.

"What about Merton—you can't get Molly to spy on him. Said it yourself, he's dangerous."

Sherlock scoffed, "Hardly."

"He chopped up his best mate!"

"He had very good reasons." Sherlock bizarrely reassured Molly, as if this reveal would be somewhat comforting to the pathologist. Given her sullen look, it was certainly not.

John, fed up with Sherlock's causality of the whole situation, took the final stand. "Absolutely not Sherlock, you can't make her go."

A moment's breath passed before Sherlock uttered a reluctant, "Fine."

"Good."

The good feeling John felt at his success, sank as he and Molly watched Sherlock stand up from his chair to retrieve his coat from the door.

"Wait-where-where are you going?"

"I'm off to protect Dr. Hooper from the peril of a limping crook of a cook." Sherlock sarcastically mocked. "Since she can't go by herself-_Apparently_."

"I'm going with-you?" Molly clued in.

"Yes, Molly. Do keep up." Sherlock admonished.

"Did he really chop up his friend?" John heard Molly cautiously ask, Sherlock's guiding hand, placed on her back as they walked down the stairs.

"How else do you suppose he got him into the soup?"

Their voices, slowly fading away until their exit was confirmed by the slam of the front door.

* * *

The football game held no interest for John now. Prodding up his sleepy head with one arm, he looked over to his phone anxiously, as he so done frequently, throughout the evening.

He was burdened with the possibility, that he might receive a call, the call that would ultimately lead him to be summoned to the restaurant or worst, to Barts in order to identity Sherlock's remains.

No, Molly would be far too clever for that. If she wanted retribution for Sherlock's little intrusion of her evening, John doubts they'll find his body so quickly.

Although he could humour himself with the thought, the idea of Molly beating up Sherlock would never happen.

His thoughts flew a recent memory to which he was enlightened about Molly and Sherlock's arrangement, one evening, stuck in the labs while the Detective was arguing with the Inspector outside.

He shared a look with Molly upon hearing Sherlock's _'this-will-be-done-my-way'_ tone, the deep voice almost cracked as it tried to reason with the Inspector outside the lab.

Neither of them would want to be on that side of the Detective. With all his genius, Sherlock Holmes, could be down-right intimidating.

Molly stifled a yawn as she looked towards the clock above them.

"You don't have to come along tonight, if you're too tired." John said kindly. "Bugger him."

She did laugh but shook her head stubbornly. "No-I'm fine. Just time for a cuppa."

"You know, you can always say 'no' to him, if you're not up to it." The question spilled from his mouth before he could pull it back and by the sudden change of her smile, John wished it hadn't left him so quickly.

"What makes you say?" Molly quietly asked after a noticeable pause.

John tried to shrug harmlessly, "I know he can be a right git sometimes but…"

"You think he forces me?"

"No!"

"_Oh_." Molly murmured softly. "-You think I only come along because I'm his love-sick puppy? That I can't say no to Sherlock."

John tried to shake his head convincingly but before he could reply, Molly beat him to it.

"I-I didn't believe it when he asked me-I mean, I don't think even he knew what he was doing but I was excited." She looked down to her hands, grasping them tightly as she spoke.

"I was frightened that he would change his mind and send me home-"

Molly boldly looked up at John, "You know it. That feeling of being on a case, it's-thrilling."

"And you help people, truly. Both of you, even if Sherlock forgets that sometimes." A tiny smile appeared on her face as she continued.

"I mean—I could say no if I wanted, and I've never expected anything from Sherlock, never—but how could I say no to an opportunity like this?" She finished with a small shrug.

John couldn't help his head nodding in agreement, suddenly realizing that thinking it was only him and Sherlock that loved the thrill, the worth of solving a case, all the while, underestimating Molly's capacity for it as well.

He cleared his throat, unsure of how to respond when suddenly Sherlock stormed in.

"John, hurry. Lestrade informs me our suspect is at Burchart Gardens." Sherlock called to him, causing John to scramble out of his chair.

The detective turned to Molly, his hand slightly outstretched in a gesture towards her, no doubt meaningless to him but to Molly, John saw, it was everything.

"Coming?"

Her face dissolved into a private smile as Molly nodded. "Yes."

The shrill of his phone torn John away from his thoughts, shaking the memory away.

* * *

If this be the last time John's called out to the back of the ambulance, he'll be forever grateful for it.

Lestrade's unusually frantic phone call had John racing out of Baker Street, preparing for the worst until he spotted Molly and Sherlock, sitting on the back of the ambulance, without (thankfully) the red blanket.

John took in their appearance as he approached them; Molly's hair and clothes were slightly disheveled while Sherlock looked completely disorientated, his scarf lying limp over his ruffled shirt, bits of curly hair matted onto his paler than usual face.

John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, already predicting John's disapproving rant.

John settled on something less preachy, "What was it this time?"

"Strangulation." Sherlock croaked, his hands readjusting his scarf with great unease.

Molly carefully slipped the scarf from his neck, piling it into her lap.

"Beautiful but hazardous." She murmured softly as she folded the material, all the while, missing the look of wonder Sherlock was watching her with.

"Jesus-what, Merton strangled you?" John asked keenly.

"Obviously, he was not successful." Sherlock said, and then uncomfortably added, "Due to -Molly. Handy with a saucepan."

"I promise not to make a habit of it. Saving your life and all." Molly joked.

"Yes." Sherlock muttered almost absent-mindedly. "Shame about your hair."

Molly's hands flew to her head, where John noted, her curls had fizzled out, the only victim of their struggle with Merton.

"Ah, well they couldn't have lasted forever." Molly assured, self consciously patting down her hair.

"It looks better this way." Sherlock's odd admission slipped out, perhaps even without the consciousness of the Detective himself but he did not play into their surprised looks.

"Shall we?" Sherlock stepped off the ambulance, flipping the collar of his coat up. "I'm famished."

* * *

Thank you for reading. Apologies for the slowness but feel free to imagine 'very fluffy things' in its absence.


	5. Bow

This timeline is absolutely minted, so bear with my little explanation. We begin at the Great Game and progress from there. Ignore all canon timelines and scenes, unfortunately, this ship steered off course.

Apologies, it's a wordy one.  
but alas, enjoy.

* * *

_**JEWEL THIEF ON TRAIL AT BAILEY**_

By **Aileen Hickey**

Crime Correspondent

**CROWN Jewel thief is to be tried at the Old Bailey and Sherlock Holmes is named as a witness for the prosecution. **

_Master criminal Moriarty taunted Holmes with his graffitied GET SHERLOCK at the scene of the crime. The crime is attracting huge attention internationally too. Irish born Moriarty – of no fixed abode seems to be taunting the master detective._

John didn't notice his fingers, at first, tightening around the newspaper, until he heard a loud rip. Holding what was left of the Times, he re-read the last line over and over, the feeling of dread into his stomach solidified with every repeat.

It hardly felt as if the last months passed as they did.

The arc of Jim Moriarty should have already come at a close, but John feared that they were now in greater danger than Sherlock had ever anticipated for.

John knew which moment it was that shocked them both to their senses.

It was that very special evening, the night where Moriarty made his explosive introduction. As soon as they were sure that Moriarty was gone (his snipers too), John and Sherlock were more than speedy in their exit from the pool.

As they ran out onto the car park, John watched Sherlock scrutinized the area with a passive look, as if in anticipation of the snipers, reaching them from out there.

It wasn't until half a mile away, where they stopped at a street corner, puffed and exhausted, did John finally see Sherlock's eyes, no longer glazed with excitement but filled with something he had only seen once before; Fear.

"Oh god—never thought I'd be so happy to hear that bloody Bee Gees song." John gushed, falling down onto the curb to catch his breath, "—Never again."

Sherlock did not react, however instead stood rigidly, his eyes drifted off into the further distance of the night with a disturbed expression.

"We'll need to go to Baker Street immediately." Sherlock spoke, taking out his phone from his pocket.

John, recalling now that it was Moriarty that broke into Baker Street, shuddered, a sharp chill ran down his back at the thought.

"I wonder how long _Jim _has been watching—Jim, Jesus—Sherlock, that was Jim from IT!" John exclaimed as the reality hit him.

Sherlock, his eyes tilted to his phone, sighed exasperatedly. "Yes, John, I'm aware of that."

"No Sherlock, Molly!" John frantically said, realizing just how close Moriarty had been to them the whole time. "Lord knows how many times she's been with him—we need to go to her—tell her-"

"No." Sherlock interrupted gravelly.

John stared up at the detective with a bewildered look. "What?"

"No need. I've sent a text." Sherlock waved his phone, as means of explanation.

A manic laugh left a stumped John.

"You—you've sent a—An hour ago, the same man tried to have us blown up but it's alright because you've sent a text?" John fumed.

Sherlock walked away, striding towards the main road, leaving John to get up from the curb alone, before following the detective halfheartedly.

They found a cab, fifteen minutes later and they sat in utter silence, without John, successfully engaging Sherlock again, despite his growing anger at the detective.

But no, Sherlock made his decision very clear in his instructions to the cabbie.

"To Baker Street, quickly."

* * *

The very next day, John, determined to ignore Sherlock's ridiculous order, prepared to leave early for Barts Hospital to talk to Molly himself.

He arrived, only to find out that he wasn't the only resident of Baker Street that had an early start to the morning.

John caught them in their usual spot, Sherlock huddled over a microscope and Molly, faithfully by his side.

What surprised John was not the closeness of their seating but the wide smile on Molly's face.

"John!" She called out cheerfully to him. Sherlock looked up instantly, his eyes narrowed.

Obviously, Sherlock lied to him about the text, otherwise he doubts Molly would be so happy. She remained completely unaware that her 'new' boyfriend was a part time IT specialist, part time psychopath.

John passed her a strained smile. "Molly, I—"

He was blocked by Sherlock, getting up from his chair. Molly turned around, sending Sherlock a puzzled look.

"Going already?" She asked. Sherlock gave her a hasty nod, fitting himself into his coat.

"Need a pocket pathologist?" Molly teased.

"No thank you, Molly." Sherlock spoke bluntly. "I think we no longer require your assistance."

Sherlock's words opened up an awkward silence, stretching out between the three of them before Molly gave a short, disbelieving laugh.

Her face fell at the quick realization of Sherlock's sincerity.

"To-today or -?"

"You'll agree that the previous arrangement wasn't really working for both of us. But I thank you for your time, most helpful."

Sherlock thanked her in a tone, so professional and calculative, that it appeared to John, his words felt more like a jab of a needle, than the 'intended' warmth of a thank you.

"I'm certain you'll understand."

John's heart sunk, watching Molly's mouth faintly quiver, as she was dealt the last bow. Her weak nod was enough for the Detective who plastered a polite smile over his face.

"Good. Shall we, John?"

Sherlock did not wait for John to follow, making his exit with the slam of the thick doors, echoing through the hush of the lab.

John moved closer to Molly but was quickly halted by her outstretched hand, pushing him away as she seemed to suck in a dry sob.

He stood helplessly, his arm fell flat against his side as Molly slipped into the stool behind her, her head falling down.

When she finally looked up, she gave him nothing but a watery smile.

* * *

That same evening, the upstairs flat was burdened by their loud argument. Their fight, sustained by John's outrage at Sherlock's treatment of Molly was entirely fueled by the same detective's complete detachment to the whole situation.

Mrs. Hudson rushed in at the last minute, making sure that the two men hadn't killed each other, only to see John kick the wall angrily before storming out of the flat.

Finally, three days later, John returned, still clearly aggravated with Sherlock. The two came to a silent agreement that they would not discuss the matter. And though, she was not presence for this decision, Molly appeared to have come to a similar conclusion herself.

She would greet them politely, help where she could, even inquire after John's new (old) girlfriend, Jeanette, but when the clock chimed, she would fold out of the labs without another look in their direction.

Molly and Sherlock continued like this for several weeks. John noted how they moved in and out of each other's space without truly acknowledging one another.

John squashed any pity he felt for the detective whose wistful glances John caught as Molly would walk past them, again without a word, as she left her shift.

But soon enough, the glances faded away and all returned to normal as it was before the arrangement, as something else took over Sherlock's mind.

The illustrious Irene Alder came into the picture, stealing away the detective's attention. And while Sherlock moved on, it appeared Molly had as well.

Despite her reserve with Sherlock, Molly maintained her friendship with John, to which he returned by inviting her to their Christmas party, a small gathering formed to appease their housekeeper.

She accepted somewhat hesitantly, but surprised John (perhaps, even Sherlock) when she turned up, dressed pleasingly in a slim dress, a festive silver bow fashioned to her hair.

What John first saw a night to make amends, quickly turned into a disaster as Sherlock publicly humiliated Molly, received another mysterious text from Adler before topping it all off by rudely leaving the party mid-way without explanation.

Fortunately for Molly, she received a work call, not fifteen minutes after Sherlock's departure and was not forced to stay to endure the aftermath of his cruel outburst anymore.

The party, so pleasantly disturbed by all these circumstances, didn't last very long afterwards and soon, it was just John and Jeannette in the flat. Before Mycroft's call, his worried warning interrupted their time together and consequently ended his relationship with Jeannette for a second time.

An exhausted John looked around the empty flat, the fight with Jeanette still reeling in his ears, when he spotted a festive bow, lying abandoned by the kitchen floor, no doubt left behind by Molly in her hasty exit.

He chucked it onto the kitchen table, before sinking into his old chair, a heavy sigh began his wait for Sherlock.

Fortunately, the detective arrived soon enough, his gaze ran absently around the room as he walked in.

"You okay?" John called out, but Sherlock only made an off remark, stalking straight to his room, past the kitchen table before slamming shut his bedroom door.

John sighed again and reluctantly headed to Sherlock's room, knocking softly before opening it.

The sight is indeed pitiful. Sherlock, sprawled over his bed, straightened up as John entered, choosing to sit on the furthest point of his bed, determinedly looking away from John.

"They found her, then." John spoke while Sherlock remained motionless on the edge. "Are they sure it was her-?"

"Molly was present." Sherlock said abruptly. "She conducted the autopsy."

Sherlock's mention of the pathologist instantly reminded him of his cruel taunting earlier but John grew discouraged by the look of plain despair, splashed over the detective's face. Obviously, the death of Adler was hitting him harder than John suspected.

"I'm sorry, mate." John tried to reassure him. "I know-"

"How strange it was." Sherlock suddenly interrupted, his voice low.

"-What?"

"That dreadful song. I heard it again in the cab here." The mutterings of a madman, stringed out of Sherlock's mouth, much to the confusion of John.

"Pithy-yet somewhat profound." Sherlock continued, his eyes narrowing.

"What are you—?"

Then, in a deep tone, Sherlock recited bluntly, "You don't know what you've got until it is gone."

"Are we still talking about Irene Adler?"

Sherlock spun round to face John, his eyes blinking rapidly.

"Yes— I suppose." Sherlock muttered darkly, the words sounding sharper than John expected.

"Right -Well, if you need anything-"

"I don't." Sherlock's dismissal was blatant as he collapsed back, turning to hide his face among the sheets of the bed.

"Okay."

As John retreated, the door almost closing behind him, he spotted a silver bow, roll down from the detective's hand to fall beside him on the bed.

* * *

Thank you for reading.


	6. Coffee

Beggins your pardon for the delay.

We return to after the Reichenbach Fall episode, series three territory. Take it slow as the time travel doesn't induce any confusion headaches.

Big love to all you lovely people.

* * *

The rush of steam from the coffee machine howled, filling the break of silence between John and Molly.

As she swiveled her head around to look for the disturbance, John took the chance to really look at her.

It had been over ten months since he properly saw her.

She turned back to John, perhaps at the awareness of his eyes, wandering over her and gave him a weak smile, quite unlike the ones he had grown used to.

He privately acknowledged this as a cruelty, that London should be so unchanged, while their own lives were left without familiarity.

All because sixteen months ago, Sherlock Holmes, the Detective, _his best mate,_ had fallen to his death.

* * *

He would have to admit honestly, to his doctor first, and then to himself, that the last year had gone by as if it were a passing wind.

He recalled that it could have only been a month since he remembered, sinking into his old chair while a solemn gathering circled around him, pitiful smiles, adorning their faces as they shared their condolences.

But as his doctor is keen to remind him, Time has moved on.

His departure from Baker Street turned the flat into a vacant museum, only housing what was left of the detective, while he moved away to a smaller, cheaper flat.

When he joined the medical clinic, a month had passed. He would work the day and drink the night. Three months past. Then four more.

But the fight still existed within him, kept alive by the hope that its spark would return.

It was a normal day at work, attending to a noisy patient, making off-hand complaints about his life, where John felt the thrill finally fade from him.

But his doctor was keen to reiterate, this only meant that John had moved on.

So vested within this idea of moving on, John could hardly explain why he picked up the phone, to dial a once familiar number.

The falsehood of his adaption was entirely exposed to him, as he watched Molly, come in from the rain, standing frigidly by the door as her hair dripped over her red coat.

They sat at the furthest table, partitioned away from the main flock of customers. He propped up a false smile for the waitress's benefit, ordering their drinks as Molly took hold of a paper serviette, it quickly turned into a ruffled ball in her nervous hands.

"How's work?" John would have scoffed at his casualness but Molly replied so honestly.

"Quiet."

"-Sorry, I haven't been in-"

"No." She was quick to stop his apology, the paper serviette dropped immediately as she put forward her hand between them, it fell just before reaching his, onto the table. "No...no."

A clink of cups alerted him to the waitress, laying out their order before scuttling away to the front again.

"Where are you working now?" Molly asked, drawing her cup of tea towards her.

"Err-A walk-in clinic, near Hampstead." He shrugged, "Just something to fill the days..." He quietly added.

Her head lifted up and just as John expected to see the customary pitiful smile appear, her eyes transformed, deepening in a sadness John had known too well these past months.

He lost his best mate that day. God knows what Molly lost as well.

At her face, John had half a mind to tell her what he had found.

Nine months ago, Mycroft paid the last month's rent to Mrs. Hudson and had organized the relocation of Sherlock's things, in order to allow the landlady to put the flat up on the market.

His confidence in his brother withered, Mycroft requested (demanded) John, to inspect all the rooms before the removals' arrival.

All requested with the fear that the two burly removalists may find something worthy of igniting the posthumous reputation of his brother, a risk neither Mycroft nor John wanted to take.

But as life had it, for John, the discovery of any drugs or needles would have been preferable to the reality.

Hidden away in the sock index, underneath the fine pairs of soft cotton, John found a newspaper cut out, the crinkled photograph of his own smile, staring back at him, alongside the detective. In addition, he found a sleek phone, its back etched in gold markings, all reminiscent of an illustrious dominatrix.

But while he struggled with these sentimental trinkets, hidden in Sherlock's secret drawer, his heart only shuddered at the reappearance of the silver bow, tucked away at the very bottom.

The same silver bow that now sat inside his coat pocket, burning guilt through his clothes.

He entertained the idea of sliding the bow across to Molly.

He could spare her the pain, the knowledge that she undoubtedly held that the Detective care so little for her, when in reality, John knew, he cared too much, a threat Sherlock Holmes had to eliminate in the end, in the worst possible way.

"I think-that it was good that I loved him."

Her sentence pulled John straight out of his thoughts, his eyes clamped onto Molly, head down as she traced the table beneath them. She did not shy away in her confession, the first time she had ever her voice her affections for the Detective openly.

"Yes...I don't regret that." She murmured, as if the thought was only for her.

The water from John's mouth dried up, as he struggled to reply but then his mind lit up with the true realization of her meaning._ I loved him._

He could see it now, in her movements, her quiet chatter and warm smiles, Molly was moving on. Her love was regardless of the detective' sentiments.

His decision made, John fingered the silver bow in his pockets, clutching it tight as he gave it one last squeeze. "Yeah...I-I loved him too."

They shared a private smile over their cups of tea.

_It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all._

* * *

**A few months later**

****John was perched at the immaculately set table, his date having abandoned him for the ladies for a moment.

Kate was a set up by his colleague at the practice and she was to be his living proof, to his sister and friends, that their 'checking in' calls were no longer necessary. John Watson was doing fine.

The 'stepping on egg shells' was wearing him thin so when he accepted Kate's offer, he did so with a light heart, full of hope. After all, Kate was a lovely girl, beautiful, funny and her attraction to his new impulse look, his moustache, was a plus. Maybe, it was the time for new beginnings.

Taking a sip of his wine, John felt the waiter approach him from behind, "Yeah—we're not ready to order just-"

"John."

He spun around so quickly, the wine glass wobbled till its liquid ran red over the immaculate white cloth, too quick for the well-dressed stranger to catch.

"You're-you're not the waiter." John stuttered helplessly.

The stranger straightened his dress jacket consciously, as he responded, "No, I'm not."

"No, you're...ah, you're..." John let out a shaking laugh, oblivious to the two waiters beside him, attempting to mop up the spill with great difficulty.

Then Sherlock Holmes reached out, his hands gripped around his arm, shaking John out of his stupor with his next sharp words, "Don't make a scene, John."

The two waiters screamed as the detective flew into a nearby table, his hands clutching a bloody nose, as plates, cutlery and glass lay scattered around him.

* * *

Chucked out onto the street, outside the restaurant, Sherlock Holmes maneuvered his nose, as to avoid the spill of blood dripping over his shirt.

His eyes darted over to John, watching the man stare absently at the ground, a bloody fist held by John's side.

"You're the first to favour my return with violence." Sherlock tried, his faith in good humor dispelled as John looked up from the ground with a look of wrath.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised if Mrs. Hudson chooses to slap—"

"How are you here?! You're...you were dead. Dead—I saw you—"

"You saw what I wanted you to see."

"No, Sherlock-" John internally gave a sigh of relief at using his name once more, but outside he was concentrated with anger. "I saw you...we all did—"

"Yes, you saw me fall. Exactly how I wanted you to see it. But yet again, you failed to observe."

The return of the detective's arrogance stumped John, though he'll admit reluctantly, that its familiarity warmed him more than anything.

"But—how-?"

"Believe me, John." Sherlock reached out, pulling John closer by his coat sleeves. "I shall explain it all to you. But not now."

Sherlock stepped onto the street, waving down a passing cab.

"What's now?"

Sherlock shot him an indiscernible expression before addressing the waiting cabbie, "Barts' Hospital, quickly."

* * *

While he tried to keep up with Sherlock's long strides down the hallway of the hospital, John had a fleeting thought of guilt, of Kate back at the restaurant, returning to a ruined table and a missing date.

But she would understand. Jesus, she would have to. It's not every day that your best mate gets resurrected, although if it were to one person to come back from the dead, it would surely be Sherlock Holmes.

The same man, now walking towards Barts' morgue with unflinching determination, his intention, clear as day to John.

John was spared just enough time to yell out to Molly, just as Sherlock burst through the lab doors, knocking loudly against the wall as they swung wide.

"Molly!"

"Oh hel-." The welcoming smile on her face vanished as she registered the figure standing in front of her, her eyes widening just as John's did.

John watched them both keenly. Sherlock stood motionless, his features crunched together as he attempted to speak, all the while, Molly gripped the desk beside her.

"I—I should...Hello, Molly." Sherlock stumbled into his words, his voice low. "I would like to talk to you. Privately."

Molly looked to John helplessly, her mouth agape before she returned back to the Detective, who was trying to look complacent with her uncertainty.

"Molly—"

"Yes." An instant after her mumbled reply, an unreadable Sherlock guided Molly through the doors, leaving John behind.

The rush of adrenaline peddling through him before was fading fast as he sat down in a stool. He gave a laugh of disbelief, only to himself. _Of all nights, he returns. He's back. _

John spun around at the sound of a raised voice. He moved over to the exit, to peer through the glass slip of the door, where he saw Sherlock and Molly, heights mismatched, though it appeared Molly was matching every missing inch of Sherlock's with her own gusto.

Though her voice was only a low hum, he watched her mouth articulate rapidly, echoed by the wild enthusiasm of her hands, waving over Sherlock. The man in question was motionless- frozen under Molly's rage, he made no attempt to rein in her (justified) outburst.

Then suddenly, the detective clasped onto her wrists and dropped his forehead upon hers, in an exhausted collapse.

The woman underneath his head stopped immediately, her hands sat awkwardly in the air, until finally, Molly too settled into the silent embrace.

They just stood there. John, watching the intimate moment through the glass, felt a shot of guilt as he caught sight of Sherlock, softly nuzzling the hair of Molly, a small kiss bestow upon her forehead before returning to their original pose.

The pathologist, in kind, moved her hand to sit directly onto the chest of Sherlock, a gesture not lost on John. _She's feeling his heartbeat._

John turned away, the images of their unexpected intimacy burned a flush across his face.

* * *

Thank you for reading.


End file.
